The Hypnotist

THIRTY-EIGHT

Balthazar was a large and noisy bistro that could just as easily have been on the boulevard Saint-Germain in Paris as on Spring Street in SoHo. Ali Samimi watched Deborah Mitchell take in the smoke-stained room, bustling waiters and crowded bar, waiting to see if she was pleased or not with his choice.

“Ali, this place is delightful. I can’t believe I didn’t know about it. I definitely don’t come downtown enough.”

Samimi smiled and gave his name to the maître d’, who showed them a booth in the corner. They slid in and sat on the worn brown leather facing each other across the white tablecloth.

“There were a lot of people waiting. You must come here often,” she said, making him happy that he’d used up his lunch hour to come down here and slip the maître d’ forty dollars.

“Mostly for breakfast meetings. Lately it seems as if I have been too busy to go out to dinner as much as I would like to.” He didn’t want her to think he was a player. “Would you like to have a drink? Or perhaps some wine?”

“Wine would be great.”

Samimi perused the list, then motioned to the waiter and, when he approached, ordered the Morgon Lapierre 2006. The waiter recited the specials, then left to get the wine, and while Deborah read the menu, Samimi studied her over the rim of his glass. She caught him looking, and a faint blush rose on her cheeks. He smiled in a way that he hoped suggested he found her charming without it being a come-on.

“How is the renovation of the Islamic wing progressing?” he asked.

She shook her head sadly and he almost regretted the question. The last thing he wanted to do was cast a pall on the evening, but he was supposed to find out what was happening inside the museum from the curator’s side, not just what they knew from the workmen.

“Did you read about what happened?”

How to answer? He wasn’t sure. If he said he had, would he appear too interested in the doings at the Met? “No. I must have missed it. I hope nothing bad?”

“The head of the construction crew was killed.”

“What a terrible thing. May I ask how?”

“He fell onto the subway tracks on his way home from work.”

“Could it have been a suicide?”

“The police have been investigating and don’t think so. I knew him. He was a wonderful man…”

“Was it possible he was pushed? I have heard of people with mental problems doing things like that to perfect strangers.”

She shuddered. “Anything’s possible.”

“I am so sorry for your sadness and loss. How long had he been working for the museum?”

“Technically, he doesn’t-didn’t-work for the Met but for Phillips Construction. They’ve done all the renovations at the museum for the past sixty years. He’s worked on eight renovations.”

“Did Keither have a family?” he asked just as the waiter returned with the wine and glasses and set to uncorking the bottle. Samimi was furious with himself. How could he slip up like that, using the man’s name before she’d said it? Had she noticed? Would she realize it later?

“Yes. Two sons. A wife. I’ve met them all. The workmen are bereft. Aside from the tragedy, it’s also a problem for the museum. No one wants this to slow down the work on the wing, but it’s inevitable that it will.”

He appreciated that she’d used the word bereft. Her intelligence was part of her appeal.

The waiter poured Samimi a taste of the wine. He took a sip and nodded. As the waiter filled both glasses, Deborah and Samimi were quiet for the moment and ambient noise filled the void. The silence between then was neither forced nor uncomfortable.

Once the waiter was gone Samimi picked up his glass and held it out, suggesting a toast. “To the new wing without any more tragedy,” he said, keeping the evening on work terms for now.

“Thank you.” She took a sip. “Good choice, it’s excellent.”

He nodded. “I’m glad that you like it.”

She put her hand out, resting her fingers on his arm. “Thank you for tonight. It’s so nice. I haven’t had much of a social life for a while with the renovation going on.” She blushed again.

Samimi was touched by the intimate gesture and the words. “My pleasure. And while I’m sympathetic to you working too hard, I must say that I still envy you your job.”

“What do you do at the mission? Don’t you enjoy it?”

“I do,” he said, answering only half her question. “But it’s not as esoteric and interesting as your job. To be able to spend your life in the Metropolitan among treasures, masterpieces. No matter how ugly the world gets, you have your refuge.”

She seemed to disappear for a moment, and he let her drift, gave her a moment to deal with her thoughts. He was being sensitive to her needs. It was an expression one of his first girlfriends in New York had used when he’d asked her what she wanted most from a man. She’d told him it was even more important than how a man performed as a lover. Samimi tried to pick up at least one lesson from each of the women he dated. He’d started out as an awkward rube when he’d first come to New York three years ago, but the last woman he’d bedded had called him debonair. He’d had to look up the word but was inordinately pleased by what it meant. Yes, he wanted to be debonair.

“The museum is a refuge, but sometimes that has its downside. You get tricked into believing that there are people devoted to art who aren’t all about commerce and power.”

“But there are, aren’t there?”

She shrugged. “A small handful. Not enough.”

“God said one was enough.”

“Quoting the Bible?”

“Are you surprised?”

“A little, but I shouldn’t be. Please forgive me…you’re very well educated and I should have expected you’d have read the Bible.”

“Is it impolite for me to ask you where your ancestors were from?”

She laughed. “No, not impolite, but let’s talk about the present, not the past. Tell me more about this mysterious man who wants the Met to put his cup on display.”

Samimi’s father had once told him that nothing was more appealing than a woman who kept secrets. He’d never understood what he meant, but now, sitting across from Deborah, he had his first “aha” moment. This woman probably had a lifetime of disappointments, interests, frustrations and hopes that Samimi couldn’t even guess at, and the idea of them fascinated him as much as her full hips, heavy breasts, her dark hair and shyness.

“Have you decided what to order?” the waiter asked, appearing at the table, pad and pen in hand.

While Samimi listened to Deborah order the French onion soup and then the roasted chicken, he wondered if it was a good thing to allow himself to feel anything for her: if the plan failed and they were forced to set off the explosives, he’d be responsible for her death.